


My Life's Best Part

by toewsyourheart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Arguing, Brief Coma, Car Accidents, Dark, Established Relationship, Fear, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Helplessness, Hope, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mistakes, Reunions, Satan's Fanfiction, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonny doesn't see, and it almost costs him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Life's Best Part

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT CONTEXT INFO:  
> set six years from now, coming off 2020-21 season. 2021-22 season upcoming.  
> contracts run through 2022-23 season. 
> 
> jonny’s 33, still captain (duh). pat’s 32. been together basically forever, but exclusively since 2013-2014 playoffs/offseason.
> 
> warnings for dark and twisty & traumatic events. 
> 
> Also, this is the same Jonny and Patrick from [Have a Coke w/ Your [Better Half]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5181458%0A).

“Off to a _terrific_ fucking start,” Jonny mutters to himself with an eye roll, turning his signature glare on Patrick over in the passenger seat.

They’ve been in the car for all of ten minutes, headed up to Winnipeg for the rest of the summer after an unsatisfying-as-fuck second-round playoff exit, and Jonny’s already drawing in a breath to gripe. 

They’re only going as far as Madison tonight, but there’s so much roadwork, just navigating out of Chicago could take forever… 

Patrick’s ending a phone call with management after rattling off another stupid excuse, giving them a final, solid ‘no, thanks’ to turn down the alternate captaincy they’ve been offering him since Seabs was traded at the deadline. 

Jonny doesn’t get it. 

He absolutely _cannot_ wrap his mind around why Patrick’s being like this—why he doesn’t want it, why he refuses to even talk to Jonny about it, really. 

He tried approaching Patrick calmly at first, but it’s always escalated to a shouting match, so Jonny’s just going to start it as one this time—got nothing to lose now, since Patrick’s just told them no. 

“Oh, so that’s just gonna be that, then? You’re really saying no?!” Jonny chides, voice not quite at full volume but excessive for inside the car, giving Patrick the sharpest side-eye he can manage, hands tight around the steering wheel. 

Patrick’s got his jaw set, gritting his teeth in that hard, stubborn way that tells Jonny his mind’s made up, that he won’t budge on this. “You _knew_ this was going to be my answer from the get-go. Don’t pretend it’s a fucking surprise.” 

“Jesus, Kaner, they’re only asking you to do what you’ve been doin’ for practically our entire career, but with a letter on your chest!” he shouts, gesturing wildly with his hands, driving on autopilot as he pleads with Patrick. “What’s the difference? Tell me the difference!” 

“The difference _is_ the goddamn letter on my chest! I don’t want it, Jon. I. _do. not._ _want. it!_ ” 

Patrick bites out each word like he wants it to sting, voice reprimanding, as if he’s scolding a child who’s lashing out, not listening to him.   

Well, Jonny _is_ listening, but all he hears is bullshit. 

Words come out of Patrick’s mouth, but it’s like he’s not _saying_ anything. Patrick’s not helping him understand. 

“But why, Peeks? _Why_??” Jonny implores pitifully, and shit, he knows it’s dirty pool to use that endearment while they’re arguing, but Jonny’s over playing fair. He just wants to understand, hear a real explanation with feelings and details!—not the transparent crap he’s been spouting off to the front office. 

Patrick takes a slow, deep breath, and audibly exhales; he knew this was coming. It never seems to quell how mad he gets when Jonny brings it up, though, which is fine. Because Jonny gets just as mad each time he has to do it, over the fact that Patrick won’t just _take_ the damn thing.

“When are you gonna be over arguing about this?” he asks, voice level now, ignoring Jonny’s persistent questions of why. Patrick’s angry, tense, and the air between them is charged, but he’s always been better at not yelling than Jonny. 

“When you can give me a decent fuckin’ reason for not taking it!” Jonny whines, looking over at him now. Jonny knows he’s being annoying, but he can’t stop. 

“Do I need another one besides I don’t want it? How many times—how many different ways do I have to say it, Jonathan? How many?” 

“I guess it doesn’t mean _shit_ to you then, huh!” Jonny accuses harshly, and Patrick sucks in a breath—a moment of weakness—so Jonny keeps on it. Sometimes Patrick just needs an extra push before he cracks and spills whatever he’s holding in there, whatever he’s burying from the world, from Jonny.  

Jonny’s half-staring over at him now, watching for Patrick’s reaction, and grits out, “It doesn’t mean anything to you to be my A, does it?” 

He’d meant for his words to get a rise out of Patrick, but the moment they’re out of his mouth, Jonny realizes it’s hurt him just as much to have to ask, to consider that Patrick wouldn’t want to stand by his side as his alternate. They’ve done everything together—hell, they _are_ together! Why can’t they have this, too?

“You think this is about you?! This’s got nothin’ to do with you! But even if it did, my God-fucking-forbid anybody be as _perfect_ as you, huh, Jon? You think you—” 

Patrick jerks his head forward, and he gasps, eyes immediately going wide, terror clear on his face, and he absolutely screams “—Fuck! LOOK OUT!” 

Jonny turns away from Patrick’s startled expression just in time to see the lanes of the interstate shift hard to the left, bridge railing directly in their line of travel now.

He tries to make up for it, attempts to swerve, but it’s too late. 

The crash comes, and it’s the loudest, most shocking sound Jonny’s ever heard—the impact of metal on concrete, the crumbling of the car as it absorbs the wall and flips into the air. 

That’s not even the worst part, though.

The worst part is Patrick’s head, when it hits the dash—the sound it makes, the garbled, blood-curdling scream that escapes Jonny’s lips upon seeing it. 

That’s the worst part. 

Jonny’s panicked, stomach turning—he can’t breathe, can’t get the air into his lungs fast enough. Everything seems so slow, but moving a thousand miles an hour all at once. 

God, Jonny wasn’t _looking_ , wasn’t paying attention…didn’t see—couldn’t get out of his own head long enough to take care of Patrick, to keep him safe. 

Now they’re going off the side—off. the. side. —down to the water.

There’s no avoiding it. The car’s already launched into the air, events set firmly in motion. 

No stopping it now. Reacting is the only thing left. 

Jonny braces himself. 

 _Stay awake! stay awake! stay awake!_ _Kaner Kaner Kaner!_  

He throws an arm over to pin an unconscious Patrick to his seat as best he can, grabbing onto him, doing the only thing he knows to do.

Too little, too late. Too careless. 

He didn’t see…

* * *

 

 

The car nose-dives into the water, and the impact causes Jonny to lose his already-weak hold on Patrick. 

_No, no—god no!_

Despite the seatbelt catching hard across his chest, Jonny’s head lashes forward far enough to smack into the steering wheel. 

He cries out automatically, more from fear than anything—a strained, pitiful sound.  

In truth, Jonny barely registers the pain. 

He only feels deathly afraid, adrenaline pumping through him—fight or flight taking over, every nerve ending alive. 

He’s sort of hanging there, writhing against the seatbelt cutting into his skin; he scrambles to get his feet under him so he can help Patrick, help him before—

“Kaner!” Jonny shouts, voice coming out raspy and crazed, reaching to get a hand on him. “Oh god!—oh god!”

_Please answer please answer please answer._

Patrick doesn’t, of course. He hit his head way harder than Jonny did.

Jonny gets his seatbelt undone and drops into the dash, steering wheel knocking him in the chest.

“Fuck!” he cries, gasping for air.

Jonny can’t breathe, heartbeat ringing wildly in his ears.

He can’t breathe _already_ and the car isn’t even under— 

They’re taking in so much water, so quickly.

 _Doesn’t happen this fast in the movies_ , Jonny thinks stupidly, hysterically.

He climbs over to Patrick, trying desperately to catch his breath, heart thumping in his chest, cold water seeping and spraying rapidly through every crevice into the car, pooling beneath them, dragging them down.

Patrick’s hanging limp in his seatbelt, the fucking thing pressed up against his throat.  

Jonny tries to get leverage on the dash, get his shoulder under Patrick’s torso to hold him up, to keep him from choking while Jonny unbuckles him. 

Jonny can’t get the thing, of course. His hands are unsteady, shaking uncontrollably, and it isn’t helping matters in the slightest. 

 _Fuck!_ How has Jonny’s heart not exploded yet? His time to _think_ is running out, mind flying through possibilities of how he can get them out of the car. 

He’s going to be too late, if he keeps fucking around. Too late, like before—when he didn’t see… 

Jonny fights with the seatbelt; he _can’t_ let anything happen to Patrick. 

He finally gets the thing undone, and Patrick’s dead weight drops on top of him. Jonny slips and his back thumps hard into the dash to break their fall. 

“Patrick—Kaner!” Jonny shakes him, smooths his hand frantically over Patrick’s face, holding him up out of the water.

He’s breathing. Jonny can feel his pulse. “Fuck—thank god!”

_He’s alive he’s alive he’s alive._

Now’s the hard part, getting out. Jonny doesn’t know how— 

The car is underwater; he knows that. It just hasn’t filled the cab yet.

How the fuck do they—

 _You won’t be able to get out_ , Jonny’s mind supplies, but he shakes it away.

 _Can’t breathe can’t breathe._ He has to get them out. He can’t— 

He _won’t_ let anything happen to Patrick. 

Jonny has to get them through a window—has to break one, force one down. 

He props Patrick up carefully and slams his body into the door as hard as he can. Doesn’t budge. 

“Oh god, Peeks!” Jonny wails, even though he knows Patrick can’t hear him, slamming into the door over and over, madly shaking the handle.

The car is filling up—filling up so fast, sinking. 

Jonny can’t breathe, has to try something else.

He grabs onto the seatbelt, uses it to keep his balance while he slams his foot into the window, trying to use his momentum and adrenaline to break it. 

The water is rising _higher, higher, higher._

“Fuck, how do I get us out?!” Jonny screams, his voice shrill, fraught with terror, still smashing into the window.

Patrick’s about to go under—

Jonny lifts him—it’s easier in the water now, which is a both a blessing and a curse—and wraps the seatbelt loosely around him again, under his arms, so he can keep trying for the window.

The water’s damn near shoulder height now, minimal space separating them from being completely submerged. He presses his hand against the window, pushing out and down, desperately going for the window-button too, even though he knows it’s a lost cause.

He keeps on pressing, pushing, shoving—exerting as much force as he can muster to try and open the window. Just a crack.

That’s all he needs.   

The gap between the water and the roof is closing quickly—just like their window for survival. 

Seconds later, Jonny’s pressing up into the roof of the car, trying to hold Patrick up too, to stay out of the water, trying to stay with the oxygen before— 

He gasps for a breath, pushing off with his hands and down underwater, to kick frantically against the window, the windshield, anything. 

_Gotta get out! Kaner!_

When he rises back to the top, the gap is small, so small, and Jonny knows then that this is it. 

Neither of them will survive this, and it’s all Jonny’s fault.

He didn’t see… 

“Patrick!” he cries out, a strangled sound ripping from somewhere deep in his chest.

He grabs Patrick’s face and presses their lips together hard, just once, like it’s the last time, and tries to memorize the feel of them against his, hold onto it.

_I love you._

Jonny takes another deep breath—his last one, maybe—before he’s overtaken by water completely.

 _I’m sorry._  

He forces his eyes open, and the water stings; his mind’s racing, heartbeat thudding in his ears, thumping hard in his chest. 

Jonny kicks at the window. He tries. 

He’s got to sell out for Patrick now, give it everything he’s got.

He’s got good lungs—got a solid minute of kicking, of trying to save Patrick, left in him.  

Jonny starts getting dizzy, kicks and kicks.

_Stay awake! stay awake! stay awake!_

Jonny can’t breathe, head rushing, vision blurring. 

_Kaner! I love you, Patrick!_

It’s not enough. Jonny can’t save him.

Everything’s slowing down now… 

The thud in Jonny’s ears, slowing down—

and it all goes black.

* * *

 

Jonny’s head is fuzzy, full of water; his chest is full of water. 

Is he alive?

He can’t be. They were—

_Kaner! Where’s Kaner?_

Jonny feels the lightest of pressure against his back, his face—

Someone’s shaking him, he thinks; he can distantly feel the movement, but he can’t move, thoughts airy, empty, drifting…

He can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t feel.

Everything is jumbled. Jonny’s so tired; he can’t— 

“Please!” a voice yells, and it comes out pained. 

It’s Patrick.

“Jon, please! Wake up!” he begs, voice hoarse and laboring, like he’s been doing this for some time now.

_He’s alive._

If Jonny could feel, he’d feel happy, relieved, because he didn’t— 

“Please, Jonny!” 

Patrick is sobbing. He shouldn’t—

_Don’t cry, Peeks—you’re alive._

And even if Jonny’s not, after this, Patrick _is_ , and Jonny got to hear his voice one last time. 

 _He’s alive he’s alive he’s—_  

It’s enough.

Jonny slips. 

* * *

 

Beep.

Beep.

Beep. 

“Mr. Kane, shouldn’t you be in bed?”

_Voices_ , Jonny thinks. He hears voices and beeps.

Machines? Beeping machines…

Where is he? 

_Kaner! Where’s Kaner?_

Jonny can’t move, muted sounds fading in and out. 

“You’ll have to drag the son of a bitch in here if you think I’m—” 

Oh god!—it’s Patrick! 

He sounds mad, hysterical, but what for? 

 _Don’t be angry, Peeks—you’re alive_. 

Is he alive, too? 

“Mr. Kane, you’ve suffered a head injury. You need to—” 

 _Oh, Patrick, no! Don’t—you shouldn’t…_  

Jonny slips.

* * *

 

Beep.

Beep.

Jonny recognizes the sound now. 

It means he’s awake, too, like Patrick is—

Patrick’s alive. Is Jonny? 

He can’t move, wouldn’t even know how to attempt it. 

Jonny can hear the beep, but he can’t feel anything, except the faint, erratic thrum of his heart, like nothing else is connecting him to the world outside his own thoughts, except— 

There’s a weight on his chest, he thinks, something pressing solidly against him, steadying the thrum… 

He’d open his eyes to look, but that’s not an option.

Jonny isn’t totally convinced he’s alive, not sure what this is; his mind’s fuzzy, thoughts blurry, fading at the edges. 

_Kaner! Where’s Kaner?_

Jonny hears a quiet knock, knuckles rapping against wood—tap, tap, tap.

“What’cha doin’ there, Kaner?” 

 _Voices!_  

Kind, familiar ones. 

It’s Brent. Why is Brent here? 

Doesn’t matter; he was talking to Patrick, which means— 

“’M listening to his heart.” 

 _Oh god, Kaner!_  

Patrick’s right here! He’s the weight on Jonny’s chest! 

“That’s what the monitor’s for, eh?” Brent asks. 

“Not good enough.”

God, Jonny can’t get over the fact that Patrick’s here—right here!—but he sounds so tired, voice raspy and weak.

 _What’s wrong, Peeks?—you’re alive_.

That’s enough, all that matters. 

Jonny didn’t kill him, and it’s a shock each time he realizes it. 

But how did they— 

The car. The water. How did they get out?! 

Jonny can’t breathe. 

_Calm down calm down._

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. 

The beep is faster now. Why is it faster? 

“Oh god, Seabs! What’s?— _Help!_ We need help in here!” 

Patrick’s shouting, out of control. 

 _Calm down, Peeks_. _Don’t—your head..._  

He’d hit it so hard, because Jonny didn’t see— 

“Jonny, don’t you dare fucking do this! Don’t leave me! You can’t— No! Get off!” 

“Let ‘em help him, Kaner!—we gotta clear out!” 

Brent’s yelling, too. Everyone is yelling, when they should be— 

 _No! Help Kaner!_  

Jonny’s screaming, but he’s the only one who can hear it. 

 _Peeks,_ _‘m tryin’_ — 

Jonny slips. 

* * *

 

Beep.

Jonny can hear it again. 

It’s slower now, like it’s supposed to be.

Jonny wonders how long it’s been, how long he’s been— 

“So, what’s the word, boys?” 

Jesus, it’s Q, speaking in muted grumbles. What the hell is Joel doing here? 

“Doctor said there’s no reason for us to think he shouldn’t wake up soon.” 

Oh, god! It’s Patrick! 

He’s here! 

_He’s alive._

Jonny wonders when it’ll stop surprising him. 

He feels less fuzzy, like the edges aren’t fading, pulling him under quite as quickly, but _so_ _tired,_ and he still can’t move. 

“Uh, well, that’s _part_ of what he said.” 

Sharpy. Sharpy’s back? 

This must be bad, Jonny thinks. Must be— 

“They said his body’s in, uh, in extreme shock—that there’s no reason to assume he won’t wake up soon, but…” Sharpy trails off nervously. Oh god. 

“But it could take some time,” Brent supplies, tone hushed and apologetic, like he didn’t want to be the one to say it, and oh—he’s still here too. 

Everybody’s here, and Jonny’s trapped, can’t speak, can’t open his eyes. 

How long has he been— 

“Or he could wake up any fucking minute, _Seabs_ ,” Patrick snaps, voice strained, harsh. Jonny doesn’t have to see him to know that his jaw’s stubbornly set; he’s made up his mind. 

“I’d be shocked if he’s not hearing us right now.” 

Patrick says it as truth, and it _is_ true. 

_I hear you! I can!_

“It’s a possibility, Kaner, but we just don’t want you—” 

“Want me to what? Get my _hopes_ up? S’that what you were gonna say? He’s _going_ to wake up!” 

Patrick’s angry, panicked. 

_You’re just scared—it’s okay. I’m right here._

“Peeks, we’re not sayin’ he won’t—” 

Sharpy, trying to be a voice of reason for Patrick, just like old times. 

“Don’t! Don’t call me that. Please, just leave us alone,” Patrick bites out, disturbingly quiet, intense. 

“Patrick—” 

“Just get out, _please_!” 

Patrick’s voice rings in Jonny’s thoughts. He sounds so upset, betrayed.  

The door clicks shut, loudly enough for Jonny to register the noise, and he feels that weight settle on his chest again.

“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, sweetheart,” Patrick pleads in a whisper, voice fragile and shaky. “Just once. I know you can do it, Jonny, I _know_ it.” 

Jonny tries, so hard, but he can’t move, can’t feel Patrick’s hand or find his own to make it work through his tiring, labored thoughts. 

Patrick stifles a moan, and Jonny’s sure he’s failed again. 

_Don’t cry, Peeks, please. ‘m tryin’ for you!_

“S’okay, baby, I know you’re tryin’,” Patrick croons, sniffling, struggling to keep it together, his words an echo of Jonny’s thoughts; on the same page, even like this. “I know you’re fightin’ like hell to come back to me.” 

 _‘Course, Peeks, always_. _I just don’t know how_ — 

“Besides, we were in the middle of an ar-argument, and—” Patrick’s voice sounds choked, rising higher, like he can’t keep his breathing even. “—you know, how you hate lettin’ me win those, huh?” 

It’s too much. Jonny’s never heard him like this. 

Jonny didn’t mean to—he didn’t see… 

“You’ll wake up soon, I know it.”

…this is all his fault. 

“You’ve got to. We’re—we’re not _done_ , okay? We’re not.” 

He’s not talking about the argument. Jonny gets it, hears him. 

 _No, Patrick_. _Not even close._

Patrick sobs quietly. 

Jonny slips.

* * *

 

 

The room is mostly silent when Jonny comes to, unless you count the beep, beep, beep of the monitor, which he doesn’t. 

His thoughts are stronger—he’s more in command of them, it seems—but the term is relative, really, since ‘airy’ ‘scattered’ and ‘nonexistent’ have been the baseline as of late. 

Still, Jonny’s more alert, able to pick up smaller sounds that weren’t in reach before, when things were edged with more confusion and immediate panic. But it’s easy to block those out. 

Jonny only counts voices. He’s not hearing any, but he isn’t alone. 

He might think so, if it weren’t for that solid weight against him. Patrick’s here, breathing slowly, steadily—in and out, in and out. 

 _You left this room yet, Peeks?_  

It’s a stupid thing to wonder, as Jonny’s sure he already knows the answer. 

Why the fuck can’t he just— 

 _Wake up wake up wake up!_  

Jonny wants Patrick’s voice, needs to hear it the most, to help him feel whole, keep him focused, but he’s willing to go without it for now. Patrick’s sleeping, and he desperately needs the rest. He’s been— 

 _You’re so strong for me, Kaner…so strong._  

Jonny wants to run his fingers through Patrick’s hair, hold him, open his mouth and tell him, assure him— 

_Everything’s okay. I’m right here, and I’m tryin’…_

Much to his own annoyance, though, he still can’t move, can’t do anything, so he settles for listening to Patrick breathe. 

God, when will he be able to— 

Jonny hears the door creak open, and he prays it isn’t enough to wake Patrick. 

“Shhh…Sorry. He’s just—” a voice preemptively cautions. 

Ah, Brent. Still here. Who is he shushing? 

His whispers came from Jonny’s right, he thinks, surprised he’s half-aware of his orientation in the room. It’s strange, feeling like more than a stream of thoughts. 

Jonny’s a stream of thoughts with a position, and a wonderful, steadying pressure against him. 

Hopefully that means—

“Oh, good. He’s finally getting some rest.”

Jonny would know that kind, hushed voice anywhere—his maman. 

He’s not surprised she’s here. This _is_ bad, after all. 

Her calm demeanor tells him this isn’t her first visit either. Can’t be. She’s obviously had a minute to come to terms with Jonny’s…condition. 

He wonders again, how long he’s been like this— 

_Wake up wake up!_

“That cannot be very comfortable. He won’t use the cot?” she asks. 

Brent chuckles once, regretfully, like he’s been scolded for making that suggestion before. “He—no, Kaner won’t move three feet from him that I’ve seen.” 

“Has there been any change?” 

Jonny knows she’s talking about him now, just by the way her voice falters… She sounds worried, afraid, and Jonny hates it, begs his body to get with the program. 

“No, I don’t think, but uh, I didn’t get here too long ago, y’know, so…” Brent trails off, and he says it like an apology, guilty for not having better news to report.

“Patrick was asleep when you arrived?” she continues, asking questions to fill the silence. 

“Yes ma’am. Usually doesn’t do much of it, pretty set on being here and awake when Tazer, uh—he’s just on edge, is all.” 

“I cannot blame him. Have you—has he said anything more about the accident?” she asks hesitantly, like she doesn’t actually want to hear it, and neither does Jonny, honestly. 

“Nah, Kaner’s not too chatty. Only talks to Tazer, really, since the doctor told him it might help—unless he’s yelling. Ran us right out of here a couple days ago.” 

A couple days ago? A couple days! God, Jonny just wants someone, anyone to open their mouth and _say_ how fucking long he’s been out! 

“I’m sure Jonathan would appreciate your persistence to come back—your patience with Patrick. Thank you for being here for my son, Brent.” 

“Yeah, of course—s’my rookie, there,” Brent mumbles, and then clears his throat, like he’s fighting back tears. 

_Too loud, Seabs._

“Jon!” Patrick gasps and jolts awake, breaths coming in short, quick. 

 _Easy, Peeks. Breathe. Just breathe._  

Jonny’s aching to reach out, pull Patrick back to into his chest, but moving’s still a non-option.

“Shit, I fell asleep. I was— Is he, he’s okay?” 

Patrick’s frantic, voice trembling; he sounds so scared. Jonny can’t stand it, has to— 

_Wake up!_

“Shhhh, cher, it’s okay—he’s fine. We did not mean to wake you.” 

Her voice is edged with concern, softness, and Jonny knows she’s trying to be as much a comfort to Patrick as she would be to Jonny, if roles were reversed. He can picture her stroking Patrick’s curls, rubbing his back soothingly, doing the things Jonny wants to be doing for him… 

But Jonny can’t, so he needs her, all of them, to take care of Patrick until he can— 

“S’okay, you didn’t. I, uh—it’s better if I’m up anyway.” 

Jonny lets Patrick’s voice wash over his thoughts, takes refuge in it. 

He’s alive… 

He seems less angry this time, and even if it’s only for his maman’s benefit, Jonny’s grateful. Still, though, Patrick sounds exhausted, voice raspy and hollow and it’s—

_Please. Take care of yourself for me, Peeks._

“Oh, Patrick… I brought you more clothes, things from home, in that duffle. Would you like something to eat? Maybe a hot shower?” she suggests, trying to coax some life out of him. 

“I—no, I’m okay. They brought food earlier, I think, and I—he needs me here.” 

_I do._

“Jonathan needs you taking care of yourself,” she answers him, not scolding, just caring and honest. 

“’M fine. I just—he’s gonna wake up soon, and I gotta be here.” 

_I’m tryin’ so hard for you. Promise I am…_

“Of course, but the bathroom is just there, and Brent and I will be here. We won’t leave him.”

“Neither will I!” Patrick answers defensively, but he doesn’t mean it. He’s just— “’M sorry, I didn’t mean to be—” 

“Don’t apologize, Patrick. This must be so difficult for you, I know. I just—a hot shower would make you feel a bit better, I think. You could prop the door open, so you’re able to hear out.” 

_Go shower, baby. S’okay, ‘m not goin’ anywhere._

Jonny’s thoughts are starting to blur again, sounds drifting in and out, exhaustion growing stronger by the second. Fuck, he was supposed to be getting better not— 

_Wake up wake up!_

“I’m sure Jonathan can hear us now, cher, and he’d want you to,” she adds, and Jonny knows, if anything, that’ll be what gets him to do it. 

“You think so?” Patrick asks, slightly hopeful. Jonny’s sure he’s asking about the ‘he can hear us now’ comment, not the shower… 

_I can, Patrick. I can!_

“I know so.”

“Okay, I’ll—okay,” he concedes, voice small, and Jonny feels the pressure again, hears Patrick draw in a deep breath, like he laid his head down to gather himself for a moment before going… 

“I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” Patrick whispers. “Ten minutes, that’s all, and I’ll be right back. I swear, ‘m not leavin’ you.” 

_I know, Peeks. I know you’re not._

“Love you.” 

God, Jonny wants to scream. Patrick is hurting! Why can’t he just—

 _Wake up!_  

Jonny hears Patrick dragging his feet across the tile, shuffling into the bathroom, and he allows what’s left of his consciousness to focus on following him, listen closely as Patrick pulls back the curtain, turns the shower on. 

He imagines Patrick in there, arms braced against the wall, just letting the water—too hot, probably, the way he likes—stream over his body, ease some of the tension he’s carrying.

Jonny’s so tired now, lets it soothe him, as well. 

 _Love you, Peeks._  

Jonny slips.

* * *

 

“—No chance! How many times do I have to _say_ it?” 

Patrick’s strained, agitated voice cuts sharply through Jonny’s silence. 

It’s a relief that he’s the first person Jonny hears, since there’s no guesswork concerning his whereabouts, but Patrick’s words are a shock to Jonny’s system, send his mind rushing back to their argument in the car. 

When Jonny wouldn’t let it go—

 _‘How many times, how many different ways do I have to say it, Jonathan?_ _How many?’_  

—right before he ruined everything, right before he didn’t see… 

“Patrick, it’s been six days, son.” 

Oh _._  

Finally, someone said it. 

Six days. 

The surprise of the number shakes Jonny from the edge of a guilty spiral, and it’s a good thing; he can’t afford to be that selfish right now, has to focus on waking up. 

He’s nearly distracted from the fact that Donna’s here as well, but shit, she could have been around this whole time, for all Jonny knows. His attendance has been spotty, at best.

“You think _I_ need to be reminded how long it’s been?” Patrick mutters darkly, and it’s obvious these six days have taken a toll on him, worn him down. His voice has a bitter edge to it, probably more so than he intends; Jonny’s never heard Patrick speak to his mom this way, and it kills him to know he’s responsible for this, that he caused Patrick’s pain. 

_I’m so sorry. I’m tryin’ to wake up, Peeks, I swear._

“Patrick, I know you’re hurting,” Donna starts a bit sternly, as if she’s about to follow up with a reprimand; Jonny’s not a huge fan of her tone, considering the circumstances, but he figures Donna must be nearing the end of her patience with Patrick flying off at the mouth, if she’s ready to play hardball with him. “But I think you need—” 

“What? What else do I _need_ to do?” he snaps, interrupting her. “Please tell me what the proper fuckin’ protocol is for when your—” 

Patrick makes a strangled, choked off sound, like he can’t force himself to put words to the situation aloud. 

“He’s my-my life’s best part, Ma. It’s supposed to be _me_ and _him_ , and I—he’s my endgame, y’know?” Patrick stutters out around hiccups and weeps, and _yeah_ , Jonny knows. 

He hears the muffled sobs that follow, and he suspects Patrick’s face is buried in Donna’s neck, that she’s combing her fingers through his hair to comfort him. Patrick’s not sparing her the full force of his emotions, not censoring his pain and anger like he was for Jonny’s maman. 

Patrick knows he doesn’t have to with Donna—he never has—or maybe he just couldn’t hold it in any longer; he’s been fighting this for a while now, riding the edge. Either way, he sounds nothing short of devastated. 

“I know, honey. Shhh, I know. It’s going to be alright,” Donna murmurs, much softer now that he’s broken down like this. Jonny’s glad she’s here. 

“I’ll n-never forgive myself if I—” Patrick whimpers. “I just wish it was _me_ instead of him. God, I’m such a s-selfish piece of shit for sayin’ it, but—”

“Oh, Patrick!” Donna cuts him off, sounding increasingly upset herself, and Jonny thanks her for it; he can’t entertain the idea of Patrick being the one like this, not knowing for sure if Patrick would wake up. Jonny’s the piece of shit for putting him through this for so long, but he doesn’t know how to expedite the process. “Don’t even think—Jonathan’s going to wake up, son. He just needs time.” 

“I know he is,” Patrick sniffles. He sounds sure of that fact, if nothing else, and seems to get ahold of himself a little after saying it, hearing Donna confirm it. “But how _much_ , Ma? I can’t take it. He’d be better than this, at keepin’ it together…Jonny’s—he’s stronger than me.” 

Jonny might laugh, if this weren’t the most heartbreaking thing he’s ever heard, because they both know that’s a goddamn fallacy. Patrick’s the strongest person he’s ever met, always has been, and Jonny’d be an absolute wreck, if roles were reversed. Just thinking about the idea of being without Patrick, ever, completely sickens him, so having to stare that idea in the face, as an actual possibility…Jonny can’t. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Patrick,” Donna replies, and she knows it too, sees that strength in Patrick that he can never really see in himself. “You can—you’ll get through this, and Jonny’s going to wake up when he’s ready to wake up. That’s not what you want to hear, I know, but it’s the best any of us can do. Until then—” 

“Don’t—please don’t suggest it again,” Patrick interjects, but Donna just speaks over him. 

“Waiting here like this, son…” she stalls, trying to choose her words carefully. “You’re just stuck in your own head, and it’s—” 

“I’d be stuck in my own head anywhere,” Patrick tells her simply.

“You don’t think going home, getting a good night’s sleep would do you some good?” she asks. 

“No! I don’t. I don’t think I could ever step foot in our—” He stops, sucks in a shaky breath. “I can’t even sleep _here_ with my head on his chest, Ma, with his heart beating right under me, without havin’ nightmares. I could n-never go home without him.” 

Patrick’s crying again, softer, less hysterical this time, and Jonny’s never been so miserable, aside from those moments in the car when he thought he might lose Patrick completely. The pain in his voice, the nightmare confession—it’s excruciating, leaves Jonny feeling cripplingly helpless. 

Donna’s quiet now; they both are, and then suddenly—

Jonny feels Patrick’s hand _slide around his_ , grip tightly, and holy shit, he can— 

_Oh god, Peeks, I can feel! I can feel you!_

Patrick’s rubbing his thumb along Jonny’s fingers, using his other hand to trace over Jonny’s jaw, skim the apples of his cheeks, his lips, his nose and forehead, with gentle, feather-light touches, like he’s trying carefully to memorize Jonny’s face. 

_I can feel you, baby! I’m gonna wake up!_

It’s the first time Jonny’s thought that, shouted it in his own head, and actually believed it. He doesn’t necessarily have control of his own body yet, but he can _feel_ Patrick, and it’s so good; his skin’s warm, making Jonny’s tingle everywhere he touches. 

He’s gearing up to focus his newfound optimism on squeezing Patrick’s hand where it’s wrapped around his, when Patrick lets go and places his hand on Jonny’s chest instead. 

Jonny can feel that familiar pressure against the thrum of his heart, but now he can also feel Patrick’s body heat, the subtle shift of material against his skin as Patrick rubs back and forth slightly, presses down. 

It’s grounding and soothing and good, and it’s—it’s _everything._  

“I’d never leave here without you,” Patrick reiterates in an unsteady whisper, and he’s in close now; Jonny knows this is just for him. “You’re gonna wake up soon—aren’t you, sweetheart?—and then we’ll both go.” 

_Yes, Patrick! I’m going to, I swear!_

“I’ll get to take you home, and it’ll all be—” he murmurs, and fuck _,_ Patrick’s dragging his lips—his lips!—along Jonny’s jaw, his cheeks, mirroring the previous route of his fingers. Jonny can feel Patrick’s breath as he mumbles against his skin, feel Patrick’s lips catching, the moisture they leave behind. “—it’ll all be okay.” 

Jonny’s crazed with it, absolutely overcome, and then Patrick presses his lips firmly to Jonny’s, kisses him once there, followed by light pecks to each corner of his mouth, and Jonny thinks he might short-circuit. 

_Peeks, please! please!_

Jonny’s begging, crying out to Patrick in his head, but he doesn’t know what for. 

He wants everything all at once, for Patrick to kiss him again, keep touching him, for him to— 

_Wake up wake up wake up!_

Jonny thoughts are frazzled, the rush of sensation too much…too overwhelming. 

He can feel it coming again, the silence, but he wasn’t expecting it, not after— 

_Patrick, no! Not this! Too much!_

And not nearly enough… 

Jonny slips.

* * *

 

“…was your mom on the phone earlier, I forgot to say.”

Patrick’s voice fades in slowly. Jonny registers the sound of it before he even hears the beep; that’s how good he’s gotten at tuning it out, or maybe he’s just that attuned to Patrick. 

Jonny can tell immediately that things are different this time. He can feel his limbs and Patrick pressed up against his side, head on his chest, stroking his hand absently up and down Jonny’s arm. 

More than that though, Jonny feels pain; everything hurts—everything. There’s a dull ache stirring beneath his skin, sharper in some places, around his joints; lungs burning with each drag of air in and out. He’s felt better, that’s for sure, but Jonny can only assume this means maybe he could wake up soon. 

It’s harder for him to focus, since he’s just gotten his body back, in a sense. Definitely an adjustment, a lot to feel, taking survey of his rediscovered, throbbing limbs, but when Patrick talks, Jonny pushes everything else down to listen. 

“She’s at our house, said Davey’s flyin’ in tomorrow. Mom keeps askin’ if my sisters should come, too—maybe just Erica…” 

As he speaks, Jonny notices that he sounds different, more relaxed, and his voice is sad, yes, but lighter too, like he doesn’t have the weight of any extra eyes on him. The room is quiet, so it would make sense; maybe it’s late and he and Patrick are alone, which means nobody’s here pressuring Patrick to do things he doesn’t want to, so of course he sounds better. Jonny’s thankful he’s conscious to hear this—just Patrick, talking to him alone. It helps with the ache. 

But god, everything hurts. If this is what waking up is going to feel like then, shit—Jonny tries to focus on Patrick against him instead, the light touch of Patrick's fingertips against his skin. Patrick feels warm, solid. It helps. 

“I don’t want to keep anyone from you, if they want to be here, Jonny, but I don’t want them comin’ out, if they’re worried it’s because you’re—” Patrick stops, like he can’t finish the thought, can’t say it out loud even to himself, letting some of that desperation slip back into his voice. 

“I’ll tell them not to come, okay? They can visit when we’re home.” 

_Oh, Pat. Soon, I promise._

Jonny feels as though there’s some truth to it, like it’s really only a matter of time, but still, he doesn’t want Patrick to go through this alone, if it takes a bit longer for him to come to. It’d probably help distract Patrick if his sisters were here, but Jonny’d rather just— 

_Wake up!_

“Yeah, you’re gonna wake up soon, we’ll go home, then they can come if they want…” 

Patrick repeats it, like he’s confirming to himself that it’s the right thing, and then he goes back to stroking his hand gently up and down Jonny’s arm. His head is resting over Jonny’s heart, and he supposes Patrick’s listening to the beat of it again; it’s probably a comfort to him, like Patrick’s voice is to Jonny. 

He’s not sure how much time passes, but after a while, Patrick sits up, and Jonny feels his absence like a kick in the lungs. Breathing hurts more, when Patrick’s not there to keep the pressure, to ground him. 

Patrick doesn’t go far, doesn’t go anywhere, actually—just takes Jonny’s hand in his. He stutters for a moment, rubs his thumb softly over the back of Jonny’s hand; Jonny can hear him half-starting to speak, the puff of air that leaves his mouth instead of the words he’s hesitant to say— 

_What is it, Pat? You can say it._

“Hey, Jon?”

Patrick begins just like he would if they were at home in bed or something, voice muted, trying to get Jonny’s attention; like he’s checking to see if Jonny’s drifted off to sleep already, because he’s thought of another thing he needs to tell… 

“I haven’t—I haven’t asked you this in a couple days, I don’t know if you remember or if you can hear me all the time. But if you can, I-I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you too much, but I just—I gotta ask…can you try’n squeeze my hand?” 

Patrick sounds so conflicted, legitimately concerned about pressuring Jonny, in the event Jonny’s been able to hear him this whole time. He’s always floored by the sheer amount of faith Patrick puts in him, the care and consideration Patrick shows him, and now is no different. It’s more than Jonny will ever deserve. 

“You’re so strong, Jonny. That’s what I keep sayin’—why _wouldn’t_ you wake up soon, huh? You-you always come through, and it’s okay if you can’t do it now still, but please, just a tiny squeeze, baby. Just wiggle one of these beautiful fingers for me…” 

As he asks, voice shaky and timidly hopeful around the edges, Patrick trails his fingers over each of Jonny’s, one at a time and—

_Yeah, I can try, Peeks._

So Jonny does. He tries, channels all the focus he uses to listen to Patrick, to survey the ache in his limbs, on moving his hand, on wiggling a finger, because fuck he— 

_I can, Pat. I can!_

Jonny screams it, throws everything he’s got into it, and just as he feels his hand contract ever so slightly, Patrick gasps. 

“ _Oh!_ Oh shit, Jonny! Oh fuck! I knew it! I knew you could hear me! Oh god!—”

Patrick’s got a lift in his voice Jonny hasn’t heard this whole time, and Patrick sags against him with relief. Jonny’s so happy he pulled that off for him; Patrick needed it, he really did, and so did Jonny. This was his reminder that he’s close, that in spite of the pain he can wake up soon. 

Jonny feels Patrick’s lips on his fingers now, kissing each of them before he drops Jonny’s hand and moves to touch his face, press their mouths together. 

“I’m so—you did it, Jon! God, I _knew_ you could. It won’t be long now, huh?” 

_No it won’t, Peeks. Promise._

Patrick’s crying softly, skimming his fingers over Jonny’s face, like he did last time, when Jonny could first feel him again, and it’s still so good, so good. Patrick kisses his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids…

“You did so good, baby. I’m so proud of you.” 

The sensation of Patrick’s touch and the warmth of his words, the love and emotion in his voice, inspires Jonny to try and wake up for real. He uses the good feelings, the pain, all of it, to try and open his eyes; he feels it, he’s so close, makes one big push that’s like a punch to the gut. 

But there’s nothing, no light filtering through, and Jonny’s left in the dark. 

He’s wiped now, and he falters, but Jonny doesn’t slip.

 

Patrick huffs out a small sigh that almost sounds relieved, but otherwise stays put, shifting to huddle further into Jonny’s side. He chatters on for a bit longer, tells Jonny about people who’ve visited—most of which Jonny has no recollection of—and about his interactions with the nurses. 

Apparently, ‘The Mean One,’ as Patrick calls her, had tried to enforce the visiting hours rule with him at first—‘she tried to tell _me_ I’m not family, if you can fuckin’ believe it,’ he said, clearly offended by that idea even now. So Patrick drastically exaggerated his concussion symptoms to the doctor, claimed he was having terrible headaches and feeling dizzy so they’d keep him admitted for longer. “Can’t make me leave,” he recounted, mimicking his ‘I’m innocent, I swear’ voice. “I’m still a patient at this hospital.” 

“Shoulda seen her face, Jon,” Patrick whispers around a yawn. “She’s over it now, though—actually brought me an extra blanket earlier. S’why I thought to tell you.” 

Jonny’s not surprised. Patrick’s ability to charm people into doing his bidding is ridiculous; it’s been a source of both annoyance and amazement for Jonny over the last decade and a half, and Patrick always likes to report when he’s gotten his way, a touch smug, all ‘see, Jonny, I still got it.’ 

Patrick’s talking tapers off then, and he spends some time silently trailing his fingers over Jonny’s chest. Mostly it’s just random patterns, but occasionally he can feel Patrick do an 88 or a 19, and it makes his heart flutter in his chest. 

Eventually, Patrick’s movements slow to a stop too, his breathing evens out, and Jonny knows he’s fallen asleep. Jonny tries to sync his breathing with Patrick’s and relax, thinking maybe if doesn’t actively try to wake up, he’ll trick his body into actually doing it.

 

It takes Jonny a couple seconds to register that his eyes are open, since the room is fairly dark and his vision is blurry. It happened so slowly, so subtly—the trick worked, it seems. 

Patrick’s in a deep sleep, head still on Jonny’s chest and it makes his heart ache as much as his body, thinking about how Patrick probably feels safe here with him, even though— 

Jonny could have gotten him killed. Jonny almost got him killed. Now that he’s awake, he can afford to think about it… 

The guilt is absolutely crippling, makes his eyes sting, chest tighten. 

Jonny dares to attempt a deep breath, and when he opens his mouth, he nearly gags, mouth painfully dry. The cool air of the hospital burns his throat, like it might at the close of an extended shift, but he drags it in anyway, just as he would on the ice. Patrick hasn’t stirred yet, and Jonny wishes he could let him rest because he knows Patrick needs it, but anything other than waking him immediately is absolutely not going to happen. 

His body hurts like a motherfucker, but he manages to lift his arm and place a shaky hand in Patrick’s hair. Tears trickle down his cheeks as he smoothes his hand lightly over Patrick’s curls, so grateful he’s getting to touch him again. 

“Peeks,” Jonny croaks, throat bone dry and sore, voice scratchy, almost unrecognizable. 

Patrick raises his head slowly, Jonny’s hand still in his hair, and blinks awake. 

“Jonny?” Patrick says, a little dazed and confused, then his eyes go wide—“Jonny?! he yelps. “Oh god, is this real?!” 

He’s frantic, words choked out around short, uncontrolled breaths. He shifts onto his elbow, props himself up off of Jonny, trembling hand roaming over his body. 

“S’real,” Jonny says, tightening his fingers in Patrick’s hair. The sight of Patrick makes him want to explode with joy and shrink away in shame; shout with relief and beg for forgiveness… It’s all too much, so Jonny allows himself to cry instead. 

Patrick throws himself into Jonny’s chest, and he groans—fuck, he hurts—and Patrick jerks back quickly. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to! Jonny, fuck—I knew you’d wake up! I’m so—oh god, I’m so happy you’re awake! I can’t fuckin’ believe—I love you so much,” Patrick rambles. He leans in and places gentle kisses to Jonny’s cheeks, his jaw, his lips—just quick pecks like Patrick wants to get his mouth on as much of Jonny as he can, smoothing his hands over Jonny’s face. 

“Are you in pain? Oh, Jonny, do you hurt, babe? Let me. The doctor,” Patrick says, moving to press the nurses button, “I—” 

“No,” Jonny manages through silent tears, emotions warring inside him—happiness, relief, and guilt threatening to pull him under—but he gets it together. Patrick doesn’t have to see this; he doesn’t have keep hurting with Jonny. “’M okay. Water.” 

“Okay, Jonny,” Patrick says, cradling his face. “I’ll get you some water.” 

There’s a bottle nearby and Patrick retrieves it, holds it for Jonny so he doesn’t have to. He kills the rest of it. 

“More?” Patrick asks, and Jonny nods. He’s so thirsty he doesn’t even care that Patrick only goes as far as the sink. 

“Here,” he says when he returns, putting the bottle to Jonny’s lips, and Jonny forces his arm up to hold it on his own; he doesn’t deserve to have Patrick take care of him this way, because Jonny couldn’t take care of Patrick, and his tenderness is just a reminder that Jonny didn’t—how completely and irreversibly he could have fucked up. 

Hell, he _did_ fuck up, but they’re—how did they get out of that car? 

Once it crosses Jonny’s mind, it’s all he can think about. 

He has no fucking clue. His memories of the accident are crystal clear, sharp and irrefutable: Patrick was out cold. The car filled up, and Jonny went under. They were as good as drowned. 

His breathing goes erratic, thinking of the accident, not being able to get them out, the water closing up around them. 

Suddenly, there’s not enough air; Jonny can’t get the oxygen into his lungs fast enough, everything too tight, too hot, and out of control—an adrenaline rush in the worst way. 

“Jonny, look at me.” Patrick’s voice cuts through what Jonny can only assume is a panic attack, and he forces his eyes open. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright, Jonny. Breathe with me, baby, okay? I'm right here.”

Patrick takes slow deliberate breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth, setting a pace for Jonny to follow. Jonny can do this—his body is used to this; controlled breathing on the ice, and most of all, being in sync with Patrick. 

Then Patrick puts his hand over Jonny’s heart, like when he was out, and it helps just as it did then. 

After a few minutes, his heart rate slows, breathing back to normal, but Patrick doesn’t move his hand, so Jonny places his on top. 

“I remember this,” Jonny rasps, and Patrick makes a pained, relieved sound, like a desperate sigh. 

“I knew you could hear me,” Patrick says, praising him like he had any control over it whatsoever. Jonny hasn’t been in control here since he slammed their car into a bridge. “How often?” 

“Enough,” Jonny whispers. Enough to remember the strain of Patrick’s voice when he screamed for Jonny to wake up until he was hoarse. Enough to have heard some of the anger, denial, and raw, heartbreaking pain Patrick went through in the six days Jonny was out. But also not enough—Jonny should’ve had to hear every bit of it. This was his fault, after all.  

How did they get out? 

Patrick goes to move his hand, and Jonny startles. “Don’t.” 

“”M not goin’ anywhere, I’m just—” Patrick says softly, and makes it clear he’s going to replace his hand with his head on Jonny’s chest. He allows it, of course, slips his hand in Patrick’s curls again. 

Patrick clings to him, tapping his fingers on Jonny’s bicep to the beat of his heart, and Jonny lets Patrick do what he’s always been able to do and will _always_ be able to do—steady him like no one else can.

**Author's Note:**

> I finished this before doomsday, and there's supposed to be a part two, the recovery and all that, so I'm sorry if this was unsatisfying as it stands. Hopefully I'll get started on the rest sooner rather than later. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry this was so depressing. 
> 
> Come visit me @ [toewsme1988](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com) if you feel so moved!


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